On a Fast Plane to Anywhere
by mydearhenry
Summary: Graduation is coming up. Woe is Gokudera. Yamamoto is an idiot. Hibari leaves the school.


_**a/n: **Had this on my computer for a long, long, long time... The fight scene is LAAAAAAME because I can't do action dammit. So, really sorry about that. ;__; Also, AU, so there's only Gokudera, Yamamoto, and Hibari. Uhmm... and Gokudera doesn't know that his dad didn't kill his mom, since that chapter wasn't out when I was writing this. Sweet. Let's move on to the actual fic._

_**disclaimer: No.**_

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**On a Fast Plane to Anywhere:**

I've got you and you've got me  
so let's forget the departure time this once  
and laugh like crazy people

**i**

Senior year is nothing but an endless subjunctive.

The wind is cool on Gokudera's back as he swings his legs and watches the sleepy rustling of the trees, precariously perched on the roof fence. The weather is warming fast and the grey skies turning the lightest shade of blue, as if hesitantly announcing the new season. Not spring (no one notices until the cherry blossoms bloom), but the intense period of entrance exam preparations. Inside the school, students bury their noses in textbooks, hanging on the teacher's every word. Inside, there are aspiring doctors and lawyers and engineers. Inside, the teachers offer encouragements and reassurances and back up plans and the students devour it all like emaciated prisoners to bread.

But they can stick their words up their asses because Gokudera knows where he's headed, post-secondary education be damned. In a few months time he'll be out of Japan and flying to Italy, first class (because part time jobs are generous sources of income if all you need is an onigiri and three cigarettes a day). There, he'll find a Famiglia to join and he'll be able to say _'nostra cosa'_ and mean it. Gokudera can picture it all in the smoke he exhales and he can't wait.

The daydream ends when polished black shoes approach him from behind.

"No smoking on school grounds, Vice-President."

This is how it is: Hibari Kyouya is the omnipotent president of the Namimori Discipline Committee and Gokudera Hayato is his chain-smoking right hand man.

"Fuck you."

Ignoring the malice laced warning, Gokudera takes one more drag. He looks at Hibari and slowly, with deliberation, puts his cigarette out on the school building like the suicidal bastard he is. He then climbs off the fence and plants his feet firmly on the concrete (he knows what's coming and would rather not fall off the school and have his brains leaking like liquidated tofu). Everything turns into slow motion when Hibari's narrowed eyes glint and he reaches for his tonfa.

This is how it is: Hibari Kyouya is the omnipotent president of the Namimori Discipline Committee and Gokudera Hayato is his chain-smoking dog.

Gokudera's sprawled on the other side of the roof, clutching his bleeding nose. Hibari gives his tonfa a twirl and walks away.

"Go patrol the perimeters. There are rats I want taken care of."

**ii**

Cursing a blue streak about the president, the irate Italian briskly walks along the brick walls that border the school's perimeters, hands jammed in pockets. It only takes a few seconds before he sees the 'rats' Hibari wanted disposed. There are two of them, Kokuyo students, one lanky, and the other scruffy and badly scarred. They're studiously pouring over a photograph, frequently glancing toward the building.

Gokudera glances at his watch. 11:42. Well, he better get rid these freaks soon because it's almost lunch—the only time he can sneak off to smoke and not get killed. He fingers one of his dynamite sticks and rushes toward the trespassers.

He sends them a hurricane of dynamite and thinks it's all over.

But the tops of his dynamite are sliced clean off and fall like rain on the sidewalk. Lanky is whirling two yo-yos. Two deadly, deadly yo-yos, as Gokudera learns, when one launches a barrage of needles at him. He dodges wave after wave of poisoned needles before he takes out his mini-bombs.

Gokudera yells in frustration as he launches his dynamites again, and this time Lanky is hit (thank you, optical illusions). He takes a deep breath and pulls out a cigarette, when suddenly, he's tackled from behind.

"You bastard!" growls Scruffy.

"You—what the fuck! Get off of me!" shouts Gokudera, because Scruffy is biting—biting!—his shoulder like some savage _thing_ and starting to strangle him.

There's a dull 'thunk' of metal hitting skull, and Scruffy collapses on the ground, unconscious. It's Yamamoto with his stupid baseball bat and his stupid grin. Gokudera, gasping for air, doesn't know whether to roll over and die (being saved by that jock was murder to his dignity) or to kick him in the balls for interfering.

"Hey, Gokudera! You wanna eat lunch with me?"

Gokudera groans and wishes he hadn't brought his mini-bombs today, because becoming a poisoned porcupine was ridiculously more pleasant than lunch with the baseball idiot.

"You skip class a lot, don't you, Gokudera?"

"So what."

They're eating in the classroom; Gokudera with his yakisoba bun, Yamamoto with his homemade sushi lunch box. Gokudera doesn't know why he sits with the baseball idiot whenever the invitation is made, He asks too many questions, laughs too much, and has this annoying habit of saying 'Gokudera' a lot. As if he doesn't know his own name.

"Aren't you worried about entrance exams, Gokudera?"

"I'm not taking them. I don't need to go to university."

"Really? But you're so smart," Yamamoto seems genuinely surprised, "What do you want to do then?"

"Join the Italian mafia," deadpans Gokudera.

He fully expects Yamamoto to laugh his stupid laugh and tell him to be serious. His homeroom teacher guffawed in his face during his career consultation when he told him his goal. In the end, Gokudera had to lie through gritted teeth and quietly mutter that he wanted to be a doctor (_'please don't let Shamal hear this'_). There was no point in explaining to the ignorant.

Yamamoto does laugh and Gokudera prepares an indignant tirade, but then he says this: "And I'm going to be a professional baseball player. Neither jobs need school, so we're kind of in the same boat, aren't we?"

There. Right there is a pause in time where everything is silent and level and Gokudera can kind of appreciate the idiot's smile—

"But skipping isn't good, Gokudera."

—and then it's gone.

Gokudera flips him off and Yamamoto grins.

**iii**

People avoid Hibari Kyouya for several reasons: 1) He bites things to death (this is a fact), 2) he has laser vision (this is a myth), and 3) he is the sole heir to Japan's most influential yakuza group. This is why, if the president of the Disciplinary Committee approaches you at the park, you run for your life.

But Gokudera—a diligent masochist—lazily blows cigarette smoke into Hibari's face and offers him a can of beer (but he's got a decent brain and does this away from the school; maybe he'll be able to keep his bones intact this way).

"It's after school. Why don't you take that stick out of your ass for once?" He motions again for Hibari to take the drink.

A few minutes later, they're sitting side by side—Gokudera sporting a brilliant black-eye and Hibari methodically polishing his tonfa, waiting for his vice-president to wrong him again. But he's taken away the cigarettes and beer, and all Gokudera can do is mouth off and brood.

"Give the cigarettes back."

"No," says Hibari, curtly.

Gokudera's more than irritated with the Disciplinary Committee's president. Once in his green, green freshman days (omniscience was earned only last year), he had wanted to take over the committee, but he wasn't even able to look forward to Hibari's graduation, as the dick wouldn't leave the godforsaken school. And now what does he have? A sorry excuse for extracurricular activities.

"You know, if you're going to boss sausage-haired idiots around, why don't you just graduate and command the _real_ yakuza?" says Gokudera, "Don't tell me you're scared." And he laughs because what the hell, this is _Hibari_—fear incarnate_._

Hibari is silent. Gokudera quickly snatches his cigarettes and runs because there's suddenly a dark aura emanating from the president and, coming from an already sociopathic freak, it's a sign that shit hit the fan.

He doesn't get it as he leaves Hibari behind; he's never been intentionally insightful.

**iv**

Sometimes Gokudera wishes people would cease the stupidity and hold onto their goals for once and get on with their lives.

Sometimes he wishes he could predict the future.

**v**

There are times when Yamamoto does something so moronic, so unbelievable, so utterly obnoxious that Gokudera can only stare and pray that God would show _some_ benevolence in his life and smite the idiot on the spot. These times are becoming too much of a daily occurrence.

"What are you doing here?"

Point: Yamamoto's wearing a smile and his baseball uniform. Dust is collecting at the door.

Point: There's milk in the cheap plastic bag and an alcoholic pity party for one inside.

Point: There's no welcome mat.

"Yo, Gokudera! I saw you walking here from the corner store. Thought I'd drop by!" Yamamoto smiles expectantly.

This is too easy. He could slam the door in his face and ignore his predictable protests of "Gokudera!" Or he could go get Uri's litter box and throw it in his face. Or perhaps he'd get a clue if he stared silently at him. Or, or, or. The possibilities are endless as Gokudera flicks through them one by one. Would an evil grin be too much of a warning? He pauses long enough to hear: "I bought milk. Let's share it!"

Gokudera resigns to fate.

"I don't like milk. But come in."

Somehow, Gokudera finds himself in a pity party for two (even if Yamamoto doesn't know it's a pity party yet).

"Wow, Gokudera! How'd you manage to buy alcohol?"

"You could learn to do it too, if you weren't so obsessed over baseball." Gokudera lowers his drink and sighs. He pities himself for more than one thing tonight.

"Everyone has a passion, Gokudera!" Yamamoto picks up one of the beer cans and inspects it carefully. "Isn't joining the mafia yours?"

"No."

"Then you're giving up university for something you don't want to do?"

"No."

"I'm confused," Yamamoto laughs sheepishly.

"When are you not, idiot?" Gokudera sips his drink. The two of them are silent for a while, the weather channel illuminating their faces.

"Think of it as an exploitation of filial duty," says Gokudera.

"Huh?"

"I'm joining the mafia as my father wanted—wants—for a better shot at killing him. It's an ambition. A goal. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Oh." Yamamoto looks at Gokudera curiously. "Well, what would you want to be, if you didn't have to er—kill your dad?"

"Drunk," says Gokudera, without missing a beat.

He hands Yamamoto a drink and what else can Yamamoto do but accept? A good while later, they're pissed out of their minds and even Gokudera's having a good time.

**vi**

_A piano._

He used to sit at one, practicing until she arrived. White dress, innocent eyes, faint fragrant perfume like lavenders bowing, swaying to a jocund little breeze, and a smile that disarmed and captured his heart—as real and as warm as an embrace.

It was only for those days that he practiced diligently. Again, once more, because practice makes perfect and he didn't want her to hear anything else but perfection.

"Hayato," she said, "You have a pianist's hands." And she took his hands into her own and pressed her soft lips to his fingers.

He never saw her again.

**vii**

"You idiot," mutters Gokudera, "You just made this the worst pity party ever."

Yamamoto laughs. "This was a pity party? What do you need pity for, Gokudera?"

**viii**

The sky is thick with grey clouds and it's drizzling light, misty rain. Gokudera hates this indecisive rain and wishes a full blown storm would come.

Gokudera's on the school roof again, leaning against the wall next to the door, but doesn't have his cigarettes. He brings them only after his bruises have healed from the previous beating. He could really, really go for one though; he can't forgive himself for inviting Yamamoto in the night before.

There's a tell-tale squeak of the door beside him, and Hibari walks out. Back straight, authoritative—what a bastard, thinks Gokudera.

"I'm not smoking!" Gokudera huffs, hoping his 'boss' of sorts would go away.

Hibari silently sits next to him. His clothes are crisp, clean pressed, and for a moment, Gokudera in his scruffy t-shirt and wrinkled uniform, thinks Hibari is real mafia material. He's jealous. They sit together quietly, as if a single word would send the mother of all mousetraps snapping down on them. It feels like Italy.

Hibari speaks first.

You graduate tomorrow," he says, as if he's sending Gokudera on a simple mission. As if Gokudera would be coming back.

"Yeah. I can't stay in this hell hole forever. Not that the disciplinary committee was hell,"—a blatant, blatant lie for self-preservation—"But I've got bigger things to do."

"Vice presidency of the committee is the highest someone like you can achieve." Hibari says, but even Gokudera can hear what he's saying:

"_You could stay."_

**ix**

He's eight again.

It's finally dark outside. He's packing his leather backpack by the dim light of his lamp. The orange light illuminates his small nose, his smooth cheeks, and his puffy eyes—illuminates his heart-wrenching, stabbing disappointments. A toothbrush, some clothes, his allowance, his bombs. Quickly, quietly. His parents are sleeping in the adjacent room. One is sleeping somewhere in heaven—or so he hopes. Right now, Gokudera only knows that hell exists.

He tiptoes to the front door for the last time and the black marble tiles reflect his skinny form. He stops to look at himself. Pale as a ghost, angry, scared—he's a thief in his own home. In what _was_ his own home, he reminds himself.

He's startled by a soft voice.

"You'll need some money," says Bianchi. She's standing by the door, face shadowed, fretful but calm.

"No."

She hands him a handful of bills anyway. He ignores the urge to puke, thanks her, and steps out the door.

"You could stay!" she calls out, "You could stay!"

He doesn't look back.

(But he's forced to look, briefly, years later, when Bianchi's standing at his door in Japan, before he's doubled over and grimacing on the floor.)

**x**

Graduation is two days away.

Gokudera counts his dynamite supply.

He counts it again.

**xi**

Hibari is graduating. Hibari is graduating. Hibari is graduating. God damn it, why couldn't he have graduated sooner?

Gokudera confronts Hibari but all he gets in return is "Don't come to Japan, I'll have the yakuza cut you down. Don't look for me for business deals, my men will cut you down. Don't fail, I'll cut you down."

The Italian has never been more touched.

**xii**

The sun is setting. The sky is darkening but the ground, the trees, the buildings glow orange, holding on to the last bit of waning warmth the sun offers. Gokudera, against his explicitly expressed wishes, is walking home with Yamamoto. And again, Yamamoto surprises him.

"Hey, Gokudera, I think I'm going to become a policeman now," says Yamamoto so spontaneously that Gokudera has to stop.

"What?"

"It's always been my dad's dream, you know. For me to join the police, that is."

"Isn't your dad dead?" says Gokudera tactlessly, like he always is.

"W-well, yeah." Yamamoto's used to him, likes him, so he lets the sharp words roll off with relative ease.

Gokudera scoffs. "Filial piety is so overrated. And it shouldn't even matter to you anymore."

"But it's only partly for him. It's partly for someone living," says Yamamoto, smiling, "So, when are you leaving, Gokudera?"

"Day after graduation."

"I guess I'll see you there then."

"What?" Gokudera has to stop again.

"Someone has to make sure you don't die," laughs Yamamoto, "They have police in Italy, right?"

"_Mio Dio_—can you be any stupider? I'll have my Famiglia, and if you think I'll depend on you let alone a _cop_—"

"Oh, Gokudera, sometimes you'll need a friend."

"Is that what we are? Fucking moron." mutters Gokudera.

Yamamoto laughs and they keep walking. But, Gokudera secretly admits to himself, right now, in the middle of all these buts, ifs, maybes, coulds, hopes, and thinks—these I-don't-knows—being friends is probably one of the few facts he's got.

"I'll email you my number. Just don't go giving it out to your coworkers, baseball idiot," he says.

**xiii**

The airplane hums with a muted roar. In the far left, a man coughs. A baby squirms in its mother's arms beside him. Gokudera flips through a glossy magazine. The cover boasts Tax Free! in large red font but really, there's nothing worth buying anyway.

**xiv**

He's almost home...

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_**a/n:** Even though I've been MIA on , I still appreciate comments! :DD Thanks for reading._


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